This was partly because he was so busy. His whole effort was centred in his work, and everything else was crowded out.
“I feel the strength of my youth upon me,” he said one day, “but I have done so little, and the days are so short.”
Before I knew it I was taking long walks with the Lad, by the bridges over the tidal river north of the city, or eastward by the shipping and the sea. We watched the sailing of out-bound vessels, and the landing of emigrants from returning ships.
He told me about his father and his sister. He talked, too, a great deal about his work, insisted on talking about it, although he knew that I could not understand him.
I presently came to be a kind of maiden aunt to him. I gave him advice on various matters. I introduced him to Janet and the Doctor and the Altruist, who all regarded him as a new and interesting specimen.
The longer I knew him, the more he cheered me. There was something in his very presence that was like the coming of the young west wind.
CHAPTER VII
“Her device, within a ring of clouds, a heart with shine about it.”—Ben Jonson.
“But what do you do it for? You can’t help. You only harrow up your own feelings.” It was Janet who spoke, perverse, unhappy, winsome Janet, sitting in a tall, old-fashioned chair at the side of her little tea-table.
“I suppose that it is better,” I answered slowly, “to have one’s feelings harrowed up over other people than over one’s self.”